


Take A Load Off, Annie

by Colette_Capricious



Category: Supernatural
Genre: First Time, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-02
Updated: 2013-06-02
Packaged: 2017-12-13 18:18:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/827348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Colette_Capricious/pseuds/Colette_Capricious
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Without looking behind him, he knew Sam had finally decided to stop creeping around the parking lot and had come inside to stare at him from some shadowy corner. It was his m.o. over the last few weeks. It creeped Dean out, sent odd, skittering energy up and down his spine, and made his hands shake if it went on too long. </i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Take A Load Off, Annie

**Author's Note:**

> Rough sex, kiddees. Soulless!Sam, dirty talk, and come play. You've been warned.
> 
> Recently re-edited because of all the mistakes. I apologize to any of you who had read it before!

Another night, another bar. The cracking of pool balls, the smell of cheap whisky and grease, floors sticky with decades of spilled beer, and cigarette smoke that swirled in with the cold air every time someone opened the back firedoor. _Same old, same old_. Except for the part where Sam had, you know, left his _soul_ behind when someone or some thing had pulled him from the pit, and the part where every other word out of Cas’s mouth was a _lie_. Oh, and yeah, the part where they were working for _Crowley._

The infamous Winchesters were the King of Hell’s butt-monkeys.

 _Not enough tequila in the world_ , Dean thought, catching the bartender’s eye. He lifted his empty shot glass, held up two fingers. He might not be able to get drunk enough to stop the clanging and worry in his brain, but damned if he wasn’t going to try. Dean Winchester was a lot of things, but a quitter wasn’t one of them.

Dean stared down at the bar, trying to read his future in the scars and scratches and burn marks. A pair of initials carved into the curved edge were rough under his fingers. _Hope things worked out for you, G.L + F.W_ , he thought. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the bartender slide two shot glasses in front of him, fill them in two smooth pulls. As Dean reached for the first one, the bartender reached out a hand and stopped him from tossing back the shot. Dean's throat clenched around the phantom burn. _Just let me have the shot, man_ , he thought as he looked up to find out what the bartender's problem was. 

The guy was all dark skin, white teeth, and a smile that took ten years off his face. Dean had pegged him as _not from around here_ the minute he'd walked in the door. He'd noticed the same in Dean, and they'd shared a look and head nod while Dean counted plaid coats, orange hats, and added them up with the trucks with gun racks in the parking lot. “You look like you’re in for some serious drinking,” the guy said. _Paul, that was his name._ “Thought I’d get one in with you before you lost the power of speech.” He lifted the second shot glass in a toast. Dean lifted his with a wry smile. They clinked the small glasses together lightly, then downed them in unison. Fuck the salt and lime.

Dean held his glass out for the refill. “Not going to try and talk me out of it? Tell me you’re gonna cut me off at some point? Take my keys?”

Paul shook his head and knocked back his own second shot. He motioned with the bottle to the corner where a white-haired man in a worn army jacket lay slumped over a table. “Not that kind of place.”

“Thank god for that,” Dean said, taking in the middle-aged woman in a denim mini-skirt and Motley-Crew t-shirt swaying unsteadily by herself near the jukebox, the truckers silently working on their greasy burgers and fries, and the three twenty-something guys attempting to play pool, cheerfully cursing and hooting at each other’s missed shots. His kind of place. His kind of people. The memory of fern bars, goat cheese appetizers, and microbrews with Lisa’s suburban neighbors were drowned under the onslaught of two-dollar tequila shots and soggy peanuts.

Paul seemed in no hurry to leave, and Dean looked him over, checking him out in careless sort of way as he leaned against the bar back and scanned the meager mid-week crowd. The guy was shorter than Dean, maybe 5’ 10”, and stocky; strong muscles and black tattoos on his brown skin. Skinny dreads pulled back beneath a red bandana. Dean wondered how he'd landed in Montana. Paul acknowledged Dean's attention with an eyebrow raise and a small smile, catching and holding Dean’s glance just a second longer than was socially acceptable between two straight guys

Well. It wasn’t what he’d come out looking for, but it was an option. A lifetime on the road had taught Dean to always keep his options open. Paul reached for the bottle again and Dean shook his head. “Just a beer, thanks.” He might want to be able to stand up by the end of the night after all.

“We got Heineken on tap and –“ he slid open the ice chest below the bar. “MGD and Corona in bottles. Bud and Pabst in cans.”

“Corona.”

The fire door opened and two couples walked in, smelling of smoke and the rainy spring night. The end of a cigarette flickered red in the shadows before the door swung closed. Sam, he thought. That fucking soulless stalker. Maybe he should have another shot after all. The chances that Sam would leave him alone long enough for even a quickie blow job in the bathroom were pretty much zero.

The bartender pulled the bottle out of the ice, wiped it dry, and popped the cap off. “Glass?” he smiled, holding it out to Dean. The quirk of Dean’s eyebrow was answer enough. Dean took the cold bottle, saluted Paul with it, and slid around on the stool. Leaning his elbows behind him on the bar, half-heartedly watching the pool game. 

The guys were mediocre. Dean could have beaten them at fourteen. He tapped the bottle absentmindedly against his teeth as he watched, then took a long pull of the cold liquid. Good, but not really hitting the spot tonight. Restless tugged at him. Something in the air, something about knowing Sam was out in the parking lot. He took his wallet out of his coat pocket and flipped it open, thumbing through the cash. Low, but not too bad. Two credit cards that still worked. He stood up, tugging at the waistband of jeans and making sure his jacket hung straight at the back. 

Paul stopped him with a hand on his arm before he could leave, his grip warm, even through the layers of cloth, and strong. He jerked his head at the pool players. “They’re just kids.”

Dean met his gaze and nodded. “Yeah. And I just want to play. Promise. Maybe I can give ‘em some pointers. Restless, y’know?” He didn’t pull away.

Paul held Dean’s arm two heartbeats longer before releasing it. He nodded, mostly to himself, wiping the bar with a rag like a million other bartenders Dean had seen in a million other bars. “Yeah. I know. I know the feeling.” He handed Dean another beer from the cooler, not releasing it when Dean reached for it until Dean looked up at him. He jerked his chin at Dean’s jacket where it hung open at his waist. “Don’t do anything stupid, okay?”

Dean nodded, eyes serious, knowing the bartender was aware of the gun tucked into Dean’s jeans but wouldn’t call him on it. “I won’t, man.” His smile didn’t reach his eyes, but he held Paul’s gaze while he drank. Paul's eyes flicked down to Dean's mouth.

The back door opened again, and the chill that hit Dean’s neck was more than the night air. Without looking behind him, he knew Sam had finally decided to stop creeping around the parking lot and had come inside instead to stare at him from some shadowy corner. It was his m.o. over the last few weeks. It creeped Dean out, sent odd, skittering energy up and down his spine, and made his hands shake.

Paul noticed Dean tensing, and looked over his shoulder at the dark giant who had come into the bar. _Brave boy_ , Dean thought as Paul made eye contact with Sam, exchanged nods, and looked back at Dean. Who was still pointedly _not_ looking at Sam. 

“Trouble?”

Dean barked out a harsh laugh before he could stop himself. “You don’t know the half of it.” He motioned to the tequila bottle, holding up two fingers. Paul poured the tequila into the shot glasses still there from earlier. “My little brother,” Dean said, slamming back one shot, putting on a large fake smile and walking over the pool table. He knew Sam would slide onto his stool, drink the other shot, and glower.

 _Way to bring down the whole bar, Sam_. Dean stepped up to the small pool table. He put a couple of the quarters on the rail and nodded to the guys playing. Paul was right, they were kids. Barely twenty-one, he estimated. “Can I get winner?” The boys nodded.

One hour and three beers later, Dean and his new friends laughed their asses off as Chase, the dark-haired kid down from some ranch up in the mountains, tried five times in a row to make the trick jump shot Dean had demonstrated. Still laughing, Dean grabbed the cue out of his hand and shoved the boy lightly out of the way. “Stop, stop. You’re hurting my soul. You’re a disgrace to the cue. Somewhere Minnesota Fats is rolling over in his grave.”

Dean studied the balls, nudged one here, one there, and held the cue up perpendicular to the felt. One sharp stab down and the white cue ball leaped up over the closest ball, hit the next one into the right corner pocket, rolled backwards like a boomerang, and knocked the final ball into the side pocket. The boys erupted into applause and Dean raised his hands, accepting it as his due. He caught Paul watching him from the behind the bar, and flush with the alcohol, the camaraderie, and the momentary break from impending violent death, gave him the full-on, make the panties drop, Dean Winchester smile.

Dean and Paul were the only two who heard the scrape of the bar stool as Sam stood slowly but deliberately up. Paul quickly turned, a bottle of the good whiskey in his hand. _Quick thinker_ Dean thought, impressed. “Hey. Hey man.” Paul held the bottle up to Sam like he was holding out a bone to a growling Doberman. “On the house.”

Sam jerked a nod in reply, not taking his eyes off Dean. Blood and heat rose up Dean's cheeks and behind his neck under the intensity of that gaze. Sam’s eyes pinned him in place. When Dean licked his suddenly dry lips, Sam’s eyes dropped to his mouth, snapping the rope connecting them. Dean took a step back, twisting the cue in between his hands. Laughter and the sputtering sound of someone choking on liquid came from the Pool Boys (as Dean had taken to calling them in his head). He looked over to see beer pouring out of Chase’s mouth, beer that poured from the punctured beer can his friends held over his open mouth. Dean shook his head, ran his hand over his mouth nervously, darted his eyes back at Sam, and forced a laugh. “Can’t even do that right, eh, kid? What are they teaching in schools these days?”

He nodded at Paul and held up his hand. Paul tossed a can of Pabst at him and Dean caught it neatly. A warm one. _Thanks, Paul, no ice-cream headache tonight._ He turned back to the boys. “Let me show you how it’s done.” Holding out a hand for the pocketknife, Dean tilted the can back. One stab, two quick cuts, and he leaned forward to put his mouth over the hole. Lips kissing the can, head tilted down, Dean paused, staring out the corner of his eye at Sam. The whisky tumbler almost disappeared in Sam’s white-knuckled grip. Somehow over the jukebox and chatter, he heard Paul’s inhale, and had a brief moment to wonder what the fuck he was doing, why was he poking this particular bear. Well, it was just one more bad decision in a long string of bad decisions, so, what the fuck. Maybe he was a little more drunk then he’d thought. With a head tilt at Sam, and one deep exhale, he lifted his head, popped the top, opened up, and let the liquid pour down his outstretched throat in one unbroken stream. In the three seconds it took for him to finish, Sam was at his side, looming over Dean, his hand tight on the back of Dean’s neck. Dean shivered; he may have actually swayed a bit. 

“Time to go, Dean.” Sam’s low voice rumbled into the spaces in Dean’s head as he pulled Dean away and frog-marched him past the bar. 

Paul caught his eye, silently asking if Dean needed help. Dean shook his head. “I’m good.” He stopped, Sam’s hand still on his neck. He pulled out his wallet and threw a couple of twenties down on the bar. “Good?” Paul nodded. Dean shrugged silently. _Sorry, buddy. Another place, another lifetime._

Outside, the air was cold. Sam’s hand was hot; hot and tight around his neck like a vise. Dean kept his head down, shuddering, as Sam walked him across the crumbled asphalt of the parking lot. The wind whistled across the scrub prairie. In the distance, the dark shapes of mountains stood silhouetted against the night sky.

The Impala was parked nose-in against a brick-walled outbuilding. Sam dragged him around the car and pushed him roughly into the fender. “Jesus, Sam,” Dean shouted, wrenching away from Sam’s hand. Up close, Sam was huge, muscles like iron, a span of shoulders to blot out the sky.

The alcohol and, _damn it_ , desire, spun around in Dean’s mind. Too much Sam in his space had always been hard to deal with. Dean would admit to having enjoyed torturing souls in hell before he’d admit to the times he’d slid boneless to the shower floor, hand clutched around his still-throbbing dick with visions of Sam on his knees in his mind. When a chance touch between them lingered too long or burned too hot, Dean dealt with it the way he dealt with everything, joking, denial, and sublimating. Sam dealt with it by either avoiding Dean or overcompensating with too many casual touches. Yeah, he knew Sam felt it, too. Even before – before Lucifer and the pit. Dean had been the subject of too many heated stares in his life, too much naked want, to not recognize it when he saw it, even from his little brother. Maybe especially from his little brother. The one person he loved above all others on this godforsaken planet, and the one person he desperately wanted to look at him that way. _God damn it,_ Sam made it hard. Made Dean hard every time this _new_ Sam, this _soulless_ Sam, looked at him shamelessly, eyes running up and down his body after a shower, as Sam lay on a motel bed in nothing but a tattoo and old boxers as thin as Dean’s resolve.

“Having fun in there, Dean?” Sam slammed his arms down on either side of Dean's body, trapping him with his back against the car. “Eye-fucking the bartender. Putting on a show for those…children.” Sam’s voice was thick with anger and disgust and heat. Dean could feel the heat. Feel Sam’s chest just brushing his as he breathed in and out heavily. “I don’t like it.” His Sam was a breather; sighs, heavy inhales, held breaths, and slow weighty exhales saying the things Sam couldn’t or wouldn’t say. But there was nothing this soulless version of Sam, this too-familiar stranger, wouldn’t or couldn’t say. They’d been careening towards this moment for weeks, for months now. Since Sam had come back wrong, without even a thread of restraint stopping him from taking what he wanted, only a lifetime of listening to Dean holding him back. “No more.”

Sam had crowded even closer while Dean’s brain wandered. A hand tight around his throat snapped his attention back. Sam alternated between stroking and gently squeezing at Dean’s neck. “Sam!” Dean gasped. Sam reached up with his other hand and traced Dean’s lips. Dean couldn’t help it. He wasn’t in control of his body. His mouth opened, tongue reaching out to slide against Sam’s fingers. He tasted of whiskey and cigarettes, metal and gun oil. Sam pushed down on Dean’s teeth, forcing his mouth wider.

“God. You just opened up and took that beer down, didn’t you? Just, right down that throat. Looking at me the whole time.” Dean made a cut-off noise, and grabbed at Sam’s hand. Sam stilled, hand on Dean’s neck, and titled his head, staring hard at Dean. Dean thought of eagles and raptors. “Or were you looking at that bartender?” Sam’s eyes narrowed and he pulled Dean off the car. Pivoting, he slammed Dean against the brick wall. “Were you going to fuck him, Dean?”

Dean smacked the bricks with his hands, trying to keep his head from crashing into the wall. He couldn’t think with Sam’s hand cutting off his air, with Sam’s leg hard between his thigh, pressing into his rock-hard erection. He fought for one last shred of control. One last attempt to stop Sam from taking what Dean had been wanting to give him for so long. If he couldn’t do it for himself, he could at least try to do it for Sammy. If – when – they figured out how to get his soul back, Dean didn’t want Sam to have to remember _this_. Except for how he really, really did. “Sam. Sam! Stop. You don’t want to do this.”

Sam laughed, a real honest-to-god Sammy laugh like Dean hadn’t heard in years. “Oh, yeah. I do. I’ve wanted to do this for years. I’m just doing it now. Before I thought we shouldn’t. But,” he rocked against Dean, then put his hands on Dean’s shoulders, “you’ve wanted it, too. All this time. Besides, this isn’t the first time you’ve been pushed against a wall behind some bar. Is it?”

“No. No it isn’t. So what? And fuck you.” Dean fought even as Sam pushed him down to his knees, back scraping against the brick, mouth watering at the thought of what was going to happen. Of finally getting his mouth on Sam.

Sam shoved him the last of the way down. “You know what, Dean? We’ve tried things your way.” He reached down, unbuttoning his jeans with one hand, keeping the other locked around the back of Dean’s head. “Lately, your decisions suck. So from now on, you do what I say, okay?” He pulled on the short hair at the nape of Dean’s neck, forcing Dean to look up at him. Sam’s eyes glittered, and he smiled, a soft, fond smile, even as Dean’s hands came to rest at his hip. “Okay, Dean? Just trust me, I’ll take care of us.”

Dean exhaled, all the rigid control slipping away. _Just for now._ Just for right now, someone else could figure out what was right and what was wrong in this fucked up world where heaven tried to kill you and hell held out hope “Yeah, okay, Sammy.” He let his face get pushed into Sam’s lap. Dean mouthed along Sam’s length, Sam guiding his head up, down, side to side, Dean lapping at it, tongue out and wet. “Fuck,” Sam exhaled. “God, your mouth. Take me out. All the way.”

Dean pulled Sam’s jeans further apart, slid his boxers down as low as he could. Sam was hard. Long and thick and Dean swore he could see the blood pumping through it. Dean’s mouth watered at the sight but he waited for Sam to tell him what to do. 

Sam rubbed his hands over Dean’s head, groaning. He grabbed his cock, dragging it against Dean’s lips. “Open,” he commanded, cursing when Dean did. Sam leaned over, bracing himself against the wall, rolled his head back and forth against his own arm. With a snap of his hips, he slammed in harder and faster than Dean was ready for. His dick pushed into the roof of Dean's mouth, scraped against his teeth. Sam hissed and pulled back. Did it again. “C’mon, Dean. Suck me.” He thrust his hips back and forth, setting the pace. “Do it good.”

And Dean did. It was chilly outside, the fog coming in trying to build up into rain, and Dean’s knees hurt pressed into the blacktop. Anyone coming out would see Sam leaning against the wall, thrusting. No mistaking what was happening. But Sam’s skin was fire under Dean’s mouth and it was dry under the shelter of his body, layers of flannel like wings around Dean’s head and shoulders. His baby stood sentry, gleaming black in the mist and hiding them from prying eyes. Eyes that didn’t deserve to see this, that wouldn’t understand. Dean locked one hand around Sam’s hip, thumb rubbing back and forth in the incredible groove there. Someday he was going to get his teeth there. His other hand grabbed and pulled and twisted all the places his mouth couldn’t reach - the base of Sam’s cock, the weight of his balls, and the softest skin further back.

Christ, his little brother was all kind of sin. Taste and smell and feel and sight and sound. God, the sounds. Profane promises spilled down over Dean’s head. “God, your fucking mouth. The things…the things I want to _do_ to you.” Sam’s hips moved faster. “Gonna, uh, fuck you. Tie you to the bed.” Slam, slam into the back of Dean’s throat. “Keep you there. Fuck you ‘til you can’t walk.”

Dean pulled off with a whine, eyes wide and wild. He panted, hand crushed to his dick to stave off the orgasm. “Sammy! Don’t…you can’t.” He slumped down on his heels, head hanging down as he fought for control. He felt Sam’s heavy hand scratching gently through his hair and he turned his head into the crease of Sam’s thigh, lips swollen red and bereft.

“You like that.” Sam’s voice was a night dark river over rocks. “Oh, brother. I have plans for you.”

Dean closed his eyes, started to kneel up to take Sam’s cock into his mouth again where it belonged. Sam’s hands on his shoulders stopped him. Dean looked up. Sam was endless from this angle, stretching up like Colossus striding the earth. He was all Dean could see, all he wanted to see. 

Sam tilted his chin up, stroked his neck with one hand, stroked himself with the other. His spit-soaked cock shined in the sodium lights. “You just opened up for that beer, Dean-O. Just took it down.” Dean blinked. Not sure what he should say. “Think you can take me? All the way?”

Dean nodded.

“You’ve done it before.” Not a question.

For some reason - the break in the action, the jealousy in Sam’s voice like someone had eaten the last candy bar, the cold air – the moment shattered and Dean registered the absurdity of the situation. The ache in his knees, Sam’s dick slapping against his face, the drizzle slicking down Sam’s hair and dripping down Dean’s cheeks, and the fact that he’s sucking off his little brother in the parking lot of a bar in Bumfuck Eqypt, Montana at 2 a.m. while they should be hunting Big Daddy Vampire for fucking Crowley. He laughed, bright and hard, and grabbed Sam’s dick. “Yeah, Sammy. I’ve done it before. Got rave reviews. Now are you gonna fuck my face or are you just gonna talk about it like a little –“

The last word was cut off by Sam’s dick being shoved halfway down Dean’s throat. He couldn't breathe, couldn't think and struggled to remember how to do this, how to relax, open his throat, and breathe through his nose. As the edges of his vision went fuzzy, all the worries, all the fear, faded into the buzz roaring in his ears, the heartbeats in his throat, and Dean was blessedly back in the moment. There was nothing but this, but being filled with Sam. 

Sam’s hip slammed in, then pulled out slowly, his dick caressing Dean’s throat, painting his lips, sliding back in. Gradually Dean started to hear what Sam was saying, what he was pressing into Dean’s skin. 

“Fuck, yeah, Dean. Take it so nice. So good. Love you on your knees. Love your fucking hot mouth and cock-sucking lips.” He grabbed Dean’s head and pulled tighter. Nose pressed into the coarse hair at Sam’s groin, throat full, Dean’s air was completely cut off and he swallowed convulsively around Sam’s dick. Sam was reduced to grunting and curses as his hips snapped forward harder and harder, grinding the back of Dean’s head into the wall. Dean heard Sam’s hand slapping against the brick. “Fuck!” Sam shouted, pulling all the way out. He had time for one desperate inhale before Sam grabbed his chin. “Don’t come,” he ordered and slammed back into Dean. Dean’s hip snapped up, fucking futilely against air, and he concentrated on breathing, not coming, and he swallowed pulse after pulse of Sam’s come. He chased the taste as Sam dragged his still-pulsing cock out of Dean’s mouth. “Hold it,” Sam barked out. “It’s all you’re gonna get.” The last of Sam’s come spurted across Dean’s face as Sam pulled all the way out.

Dean stretched up with a groan, knees aching, mouth full, and cock an iron rod inside his jeans. He slithered up to his feet. Sam hard against his front, the wall sturdy, against his back. Sam’s grin was evil and satisfied at the same time. “Knew you had it in you. Fucking amazing. “ He grabbed Dean’s face, huge hand spanning the width and squeezed at the hinges of Dean’s jaw. “Show me.”

Dean opened his mouth. The feel of Sam’s other hand squeezing and releasing Dean’s dick and the in-fucking-credible feel of Sam licking his own come out of Dean’s mouth made shame and embarrassment as relevant as the vocabulary words on the SATs Dean had never taken. Sam pulled away and Dean moaned at the loss. Sam smirked and smacked Dean hard on the hip. “Open your jeans. And turn around. Hand on the wall. Don’t swallow. You’ll regret it.”

Dean looked up, eyes hooded with lust, mouth held open. He stared hard at Sam as he leaned back against the wall, hips thrust out like a Sunset Boulevard hustler. He licked his lips, eyes rolling up at the taste, as he slowly lowered the zipper. He’d gone commando again and as the zipper reached the bottom, his cock sprang free, trailing a string of come from his stomach to the tip. Dean fisted his cock slowly. Sam’s eyes were almost demon-black, the only vestige of humanity the thin ring of hazel around the dark iris. “Dean,” Sam whispered. Dean smiled. He knew he was a hell of a hunter, and a crack shot, but his best weapon had always been his body. “Fucking tease,” Sam ground out, and Dean could hear the laughter and admiration under the lust. Sam always liked it when someone gave back as hard as he did.

Sam grabbed him and turned him roughly. He pulled Dean’s hands up and slammed the palms onto the wall. “Hold on.” Then he grabbed Dean’s hips, pulling him back until his bare ass jutted into the cold night air. Dean dared a glance of the hood of the Impala. No one around. He almost wanted someone to come out and see him like this. Maybe Paul. Get a glimpse of what he’d missed out on.

Sam laughed as he followed Dean’s gaze. “You like to be watched, Dean? Want someone to come out and see your baby brother fucking you into the wall?” Dean shuddered, cock jerking into the air. “Don’t worry. That’ll happen soon enough. Now open that fucking mouth.”

Dean opened, moaning as Sam’s fingers reached in and scooped out the come off Dean’s tongue. He’d tried to hold on to all it, but more and more of it had slipped down his throat. Sam’s fingers trailed down the crack of his ass and he groaned low. Sam kicked at Dean’s ankles. “C'mon, wider. Spread for me.” Dean whined and spread as far as the jeans binding his thighs would let him. Sam’s fingers pushed and circled and spread the come over Dean’s opening. Desperate, he pushed back, trying to get more. He was hard, had been hard for ages, so hard it hurt. “Sam. Sammy, come on, man. I gotta come. Please.” He begged with his body and voice.

“So hot for me, Dean. So desperate.” Sam slid one long finger all the way in and Dean went up on tiptoes. Sam had long fucking fingers. God, it felt so good. Much sooner than Dean was ready for, Sam shoved in a second finger, passage eased only by the come and spit on his fingers. It had been way too long since Dean had had this, this mix of pain and pleasure that gutted him, took him out of his head. Women were great, Dean loved women, but he had to be so careful with them. Take care of them, make it good for _them_. Sometimes, he needed the pounding only another man could give, someone strong, so he could just lay back and let it happen.

Sam pushed in hard and leaned across Dean’s back, breath in his ear, whispering promises Dean prayed to hell he’d keep. Sam just kept driving in and in, brushing that sweet spot deep inside Dean until Dean saw stars and his cock jerked hard, precome pulsing steadily out to drip on the ground. 

“Take it so good. Dean. So good. Later, god, soon. Soon… I’m gonna strip you. Fuck, you’re so hot and tight. Gonna shove a plug in you. A big one.” Dean felt Sam pull back a slight bit, cold air rushed into the space between their bodies and Dean shivered. Sam fumbled in the pockets of his jeans. The fingers inside Dean slowed but never stopped. 

Dean felt the cold chill of lube trickle down his ass onto where Sam’s fingers disappeared inside him and he realized Sam had been prepared for this, had planned it. “Fucking boy scout,” he growled. 

Sam ignored him and worked a third finger deep inside. Dean panted and swore, fucking himself back on Sam’s fingers. Sam draped himself over Dean’s back again. “Shut up, Dean. Next time, I’ll gag you when I fuck you.” Dean moaned long and loud and his knees buckled, and only Sam’s fingers inside him and his arm under Dean’s shoulder held him up. 

“Yeah?” Sam whispered low and hot against Dean’s ear. “I’d hate to close up that mouth, though. Gonna plug you. Tie you hands behind your back.” The fingers inside Dean sped up, pounding against his prostate, pushing so deep inside him Dean could feel them in the back of his throat. He pushed back, feeling the orgasm gathering in the base of his spine, in his balls, in his chest. Sam’s voice was as deep inside him as his fingers were; the pictures he painted searing themselves into Dean’s brain. “Push you down on your knees. Hands tied, ass stretched full, and I’m going to shove my cock right down your throat again. You’re so pretty like that, Dean. All green watery eyes and red stretched lips.”

Dean’s head hung down and sweat rolled down between his shoulder blades, dripping off his face to mingle with the come on the ground. “Fuck. Fuck. Fucking Christ, Sam. Please. I gotta come. Please, please let me come.”

Sam’s fingers were relentless. “Gonna come on your face while you’re like that, Dean. Pull out, spurt all over you and you can’t move. I’ll grab you, make you lick it all off my cock. Then I’ll get hard again and fuck your mouth again and again until you can’t talk.”

All the muscles in Dean’s body clenched in a shudder that almost forced Sam’s fingers completely out of him. “Sammy!” he screamed into the night air, not caring if Cas and all the remaining angels popped in right that second. Sam shoved his hand back in with a twist. “Then I’m going to push your pretty face into the bed and fuck you until you can’t walk for a week. Make you scream until someone calls the cops.” And he bit down on the thick muscle on Dean’s shoulder.

That was it. It was all over and Dean yelled into the dark night, into the void, coming hard against the wall, on the ground, muscles clamping down on Sam’s fingers. 

He barely felt it as Sam pulled out, wiping his fingers down Dean’s jeans. Sam tucked him back into his clothes, gently kissing his face and slipping him into the backseat of the Impala. He tucked a blanket around Dean and slid whistling into the driver’s seat. The drove in silence as Sam guided them back through the unlit backroads to their hotel.

For a moment Dean let himself miss _Sammy_ , his earnest, sweet, deadly baby brother. He missed him with a heart-crushing longing. He missed the way Sam loved him. Missed having some one warm and caring in this cold, cold world. He pushed the longing down before the sob could break free. Shoved it back and concentrated on the lassitude of his limbs, the well-fucked feel of his body and idly wondered if Sam would make good on his promises the next time. Because Dean knew full well there was going to be a next time. It was going to happen again. Lucifer, Michael, and Adam in the pit help him. He was helpless against Sam. Always had been. He would drop to his knees, spread his legs whenever Sam wanted, and deal with the consequences of a re-souled Sam later. He was a Winchester. It was what they did.


End file.
